by Nicole Snow
Damn! I'm frozen, wracking my brain for what to do.
I jerk the door open – only to run face-first into the wall of James' bulk. He stiffens, looking over his shoulder.
“Miss Burke, Mr. Strauss said you’re not to go anywhere.”
“In case you can’t hear all that screaming, Mr. Strauss could be in real trouble and I don’t have time for this.” I glower at him. “I’m a grown woman. Not a prisoner. So, move!”
I expect an argument. But then another shriek comes from the stage, and he tosses a wide-eyed look that way, before his radio crackles at his hip and Landon’s voice barks out.
“All hands on deck in the wings. Now.” There’s a thrilling note of command, cool and controlled, that I’ve never quite heard before. James snaps his radio from his belt and murmurs into it.
“On my way.” Then he favors me with a clipped nod. “Come with me, Miss.”
James plows ahead, into the chaos of stage hands, managers, record company employees, event staff, and technicians milling around in a mess that’s only an echo of the bigger disaster outside among the screaming, frightened fans.
For a brief second, he’s my buffer, parting the Red Sea of people for me with his broad shoulders, but that shield doesn’t last long. In less than ten seconds, people cut between us, running every which way and slowing my frantic steps.
Jesus. Cradling the wine glass protectively against my chest, I shoulder on, forcing myself toward the stage, only for someone to bump me so hard I go spinning around and stumbling into a side hallway leading back towards an emergency exit.
I start to right myself and dodge around the person, but they shift themselves into my way deliberately, blocking my path.
I still, looking up, following the line of a dark, smooth tie up over broad shoulders to a neatly trimmed beard and a cool, reflective smile, into hazel eyes that suddenly seem less thoughtful and more cold, calculating, and utterly self-satisfied.
Dallas.
My throat constricts. Adrenaline kicks through me so hard it’s like I’ve been hooked up to an electrical socket. My entire body goes still, tense and ready to bolt, poised on the balls of my feet.
“Hello, Miss Burke,” he says, rather congenially, eerily at odds with the ruckus just beyond the mouth of the hallway. I don’t like that look. That calm. Not after what Landon said. And especially not when Dallas continues, “Well. You’ve really made this all come together quite neatly, haven’t you? What fortune, finding you here.”
I take a step back, gauging the space he takes up, what chance I have of squeezing past him.
Maybe if I scream – but who’s going to notice one scream among hundreds?
“Move, Dallas!” I say. Maybe if I play it cool. Act like I don’t suspect him. “I need to find Landon. It’s important.”
“Unfortunately, darling, I need you to not find Landon. Or Milah. Not right now. I need you right here.” He smirks. “Look at you. You’re a mess. The story practically tells itself. Love-crazed, jealous little girlfriend chases down her man and poisons her rival. Poor incompetent Landon. So inept at managing his business he can’t even protect his clients from one devious little woman. Think what the blogs and papers will say!”
My eyes widen. Everything recedes to a dull, roaring distance.
That's it then. He’s going to use me to frame Landon. Only, that doesn’t work if I can tell the entire story and show him up for the snake he is.
Then it hits me: the only way this works for Dallas is if I’m dead.
Cold sweat ices down my spine. I don’t waste words.
I’m only frozen for a moment longer before I bolt, darting for the small opening at his side, shoving past him. I barely manage to squeeze beyond his bulk before his arm snares around my waist, an immovable band of steel.
He jerks me back against him in a mockery of a lover’s embrace. Even while I kick, struggling and snarling and jerking against him, he bends down and whispers in my ear.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, and my skin crawls at the mimicry of intimacy, at his breaths curling against my ear. “This pill won’t kill you...yet. They’ll find the other in your pocket, and realize you tried to commit a murder-suicide. You should thank me, Kenna. It’ll be painless. You’ll slip away quietly in your sleep, and won’t have to see your annoying little boyfriend fall.”
He reaches around me with his other hand, clasps the wine glass I’m still clutching, and snaps the stem like it’s the thinnest twig.
I scream, elbowing back, fighting with everything in me, and there’s one satisfying thud as my head crashes back against his face before he snarls and clamps a hand over my mouth.
“Be a good girl,” he hisses in my ear, before something bitter and foul-tasting rolls over my tongue.
I fight not to swallow, but he pushes down harder, squeezing against my cheeks, pushing the pill deeper. It goes down in a hard little painful lump.
And then the world goes black, fading away into a wavering, trembling nothing.
18
Countdown (Landon)
Something isn’t right.
I feel like the only one standing still in a sea of panic, with the paramedics rushing in on Milah, the media angling for a look, the crowd alternately trying to rush the stage and stampede the exits.
Only, I’m motionless, watching as Milah is bundled onto a stretcher, taking in the details as the seconds tick by. She's alive for now. Still breathing.
The paramedics are already saying she collapsed from exhaustion, too much stress, the searing heat from the lights. But her skin is gray and her lips are blue, and she’s breathing oddly, her chest hitching up in shallow, strained jerks.
No. No, this isn’t right.
And the second I overhear one of the EMTs say “she’s going tacky. Might be dealing with a drug overdose,” my heart nearly stops before Milah’s can.
Fuck.
This isn't really happening.
Drugs? How? I was with her almost the entire time, and so was Skylar and James. None of us would've let her slip anything past us. She didn’t snort up or shoot up with me. I know her routine by now.
She doesn’t coke up right before going on stage. She forgets the lyrics, loses focus. There’s no way she’d OD. The girl is all kinds of messed up, but she took this show seriously.
This has Dallas' hand all over it.
I just have to figure out how.
But first, I have to find him.
At least I'm leaving Milah in safe hands. There’s nothing I can do for her medically, and several of my guys are clustered around, standing watch over the paramedics.
They’ll bring her back.
I have to believe that, but me hovering won’t help. I stride out of the wings and into the backstage hallway. It’s unnervingly deserted, dark, my steps echoing. Everyone’s either vacated the arena or rushed out to rubberneck, leaving the place looking like a disaster zone where people dropped everything just to run. Papers scattered, equipment abandoned.
Every instinct in me screams be ready. For what, I don't know, but it feels like an attack.
It’s like I’m back in Fallujah, relying on the same sixth sense soldiers develop in danger. A man who's seen combat can sense people’s intent riding on the air, this heavy scent of purpose that tells us when an enemy is ready to strike.
And this place stinks of Dallas.
But I can’t find anyone. Every room I check is empty, every hallway vacant, this horror movie atmosphere of silent tension stalking me through every corridor.
I know where all of my men are.
It’s telling that I don’t see a single crew member with the Crown Security logo on their jacket. I’m about ready to join my team on containment and cleanup, shelving Dallas for a more considered, careful approach, when I trip over something that yields with a rubbery push and then kicks back against my ankle. The hard edge of a sandal, with a foot still in it.
Fuck. I drop to my knees, an “Are you all ri
ght?” on my lips, only for the words to crumble into dry ash once I realize who I’m bending toward.
Kenna.
I’ve never known fear like these thorns that cage me now, driving deep into my flesh.
She’s unconscious, the same ashen gray as Milah, her lips just as blue. Fuck!
Dallas again. The asshole must've gotten her. She’s so horribly limp when I lift her up, shaking her. So light, like she’s already gone, and this is just a husk left behind.
I’m choking, my eyes blurring, as I check her sluggish pulse, then lean down and press my ear over her chest, listening for the faint beat of her heart.
“Kenna,” I gasp raggedly, struggling around the thickness filling my throat. “Kenna. Wake up. Baby, Reb, please, wake up. Wake up!”
The last two words rocket off my tongue, sheer panic, ripping me in two. I've lived the past three decades of my life learning self-control, discipline, learning to stay calm. And right now that's falling to shit because the only woman I've cared about is dying in my arms.
No response. No whimper. No movement. Nada.
She’s as still and silent as the dead, hanging in my arms, this rag doll without the fire and spirit and laughter and sweetness I love. This is my fucking fault.
I took her wide-eyed, trusting innocence that believed in me so much and I ruined it. I brought my poison to her doorstep, and injected it in her veins. Dallas may have done the deed, but she's here, collapsed, dying because of me.
This is all my selfishness, my shittiness, and it isn't fucking fair.
I should be the one lying here barely breathing, clinging to life. She doesn't deserve any of this.
I clutch her to me with one arm, fumbling for my radio with the other hand. But before I can find words, a raw, roaring scream of sheer anguish pours from inside me, ripping out of my chest. I trail off, gasping for breath, then bark into the speaker.
“I need help, help, get someone the fuck up here now!” I snap off. “Kenna – she’s – I’m in the hall near the manager's office, send the paramedics – James? Riker? Skylar? Anyone?”
A sharp bang cuts me off. There’s a crackle of confirmation from my radio, but I barely hear it as I snap my head up, toward the door that just rocketed open.
Instinctively, I clutch Kenna closer to me with a lion-like snarl – I’m full animal, protecting my mate. Protecting her as much as I possibly can after I'm the reason she's in this state.
And I have every fucking right to be worried, when Dallas comes strutting in with that smug, hateful smile on his lips, his arms spread as if he’s presenting the grand finale to this terrible carnival show he’s undoubtedly arranged right from the start.
“Landon!” he nearly purrs. “How's it hanging? The two of you couldn’t be playing this any better. Who the hell knew you were such a fine actor? Ready to play Romeo to your Juliet?”
Everything goes red. Every last bit of humanity in me vanishes to leave a raging, rabid beast.
“You!” I snarl, and launch myself at him.
He doesn’t even dodge. It’s like he’s asking for it, as my fist swings in.
I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in his eyes – teeth bared, face crazed with fury – before his head snaps to the side with a satisfying crunch and the painful reverberation of impact shakes up through my knuckles and into the bones of my arm. He staggers back, reeling, before catching himself with an almost incredulous laugh and touching his bleeding lower lip. His fingertips come away red, and he stares at them, looking all too pleased.
I clench my fists, sucking in heaving breaths. I want to fucking kill him. I want to fucking kill him now, but first I need to know what he did to Kenna and how to fix it when I can feel the silver thread tying her soul to mine growing thinner and thinner by the second.
“Talk,” I spit. “What did you do?”
“What you gave me room to do, you careless, overconfident fool. So noble.” He smirks, swiping his lower lip clean with his thumb. “You play the wounded animal, the tortured soul, but deep down you believe so much in people’s inherent goodness that you just don’t watch your back. You even trusted me to watch it for you.” He arches a brow, cracking his jaw in a back-and-forth motion. “Have to say, the bloody lip will be the perfect finishing touch.”
It takes everything in me not to launch at him and wrap my fingers around his neck. “To. What.”
“To the dramatic little story of a Juliet gone wild. And her brass balls Romeo who died heroically, trying to stop the man who discovered her attempt to cover up a jealous murder by committing suicide.”
My eyes widen. This fucker arranged this, and then used Kenna’s convenient arrival to cap it off.
He poisoned Milah to get to me, to shove me out of the game, and he’ll kill Kenna and me both to seal the deal and tie up any loose ends.
Like father, like son.
Apples don’t fall far from the tree, and these apples are rotten to the core.
I fling myself at him, operating on instinct – only to stop short like my leash gets yanked as a sleek black Beretta materializes from inside his suit. It pins me with the killing black eye of its muzzle, rooting me to the spot with it trained between my eyes.
“Don’t make this difficult, Landon,” Dallas says almost pityingly. “You always have to make everything so damn complicated. For once in your life – relax.”
“Bastard!” I snarl. I’m already calculating, looking for a moment of inattention, a second to get him in a hold and disarm him.
He smirks. “I’ve been called worse.” Then he lifts his radio to his lips, keeping the gun and his sidelong gaze trained on me. “I have target alpha secured in the manager’s office. Let’s sweep, clean up, and dispose of the trash. Converge.”
Fuck. I have maybe five seconds to overpower Dallas and get away with Kenna before his team shows up to finish the job and mop up the mess. As he lowers the radio to clip it to his slacks, I seize the distraction.
I lunge, throwing myself forward with all my strength, all my speed. He barely even hesitates.
There’s a sharp report.
A bright, blinding muzzle flash exploding over me.
Then pain, searing into my side, hot enough to eclipse the entire right side of my body with red liquid fire, like I’m drowning in blood. I stagger, falling to my knees at his feet. There’s only a moment to grab at him, struggling, fighting.
Then the butt of the Beretta comes down, pain crashes into my skull, and in a flicker-flash of white to black everything goes dark.
* * *
I don’t expect to wake up again.
For a moment I don’t know where I am. Not when I went down under enemy fire, and the first thing that penetrates the dark is the familiar sound of gunfire exchanged on a battlefield. I expect to wake up in a bivouac tent in Fallujah, surrounded by light the color of the sand that creeps into everything, from your gear to your mouth to the crack of your ass.
Instead I wake up to the cold white light of an overhead bank of fluorescents, James and Riker standing over me with their weapons drawn and aimed toward the door, Kenna cold and barely breathing next to me while the blood from the seeping pit of fire carved into my side stretches between us to soak into her clothing and link us like some terrible pact in dying heart’s blood.
I manage to lift one arm, reaching across the space between us to touch her cheek. It’s so cold, but I can still feel her breaths feathering against my knuckles.
She’s alive. But I don’t know for how long.
I’ve got to get her to a hospital.
And then I’m killing Dallas.
I’ve let childhood nostalgia blind me to that asshole the same way it blinded Steve to the darkness inside me.
No matter how awful Reg Reese was, I'd actually been naïve enough to think his son wouldn’t be just as fucked.
Naïve enough to buy all that diversionary shit about finding my old man’s killer, about working with the police.
Dallas an
d I have been rivals since the fucking cradle, but it was always that sort of high school shit with trying to be the better son, two princes vying for the crown. I never thought he’d carry it too far.
He was right about me.
No matter how poisoned I may be, there’s some part of me that believes most people are like Kenna.
Inherently good. Worth having faith in.
I’ve always thought I was the only one who couldn’t be trusted, with my father’s tainted blood in my veins.
And now, my oversight, my error, is killing my Kenna.
Move asshole, a voice deep inside me barks.
I have to get up. Pain chews up my side like a rabid animal, but I force myself up, groaning, and twist to peel back the rip in my blood-matted shirt. Just a flesh wound, it looks like. More blood than there should be, making it look worse than it is.
Probably nicked a minor artery. Fuck. It hurts, but it won’t keep me down.
Another grunt escapes as I push myself to my feet. James glances over his shoulder. “Boss, stay down.”
Then he's bolting. He breaks off as the door slams open and a bruiser in a Crown Security jacket comes barging in, firing wildly.
I fling myself instinctively to the ground, going for my own gun, only to find it gone. James and Riker drop to guard position – and in two sharp shots he’s down. I hear the gunfire outside dying down, and I only hope that means my team has the upper hand. I selected them all for their training and ability to stay cool in a crisis. If Skylar and her team have got the others pinned down from behind, we're good.
Dallas' men are sloppy.
It’s only in the quiet that I realize I instinctively wrapped myself around Kenna’s limp body, ignoring the pain to make a shield out of myself. Now I force myself to uncurl, brushing her hair back and kissing her brow. “Hang in there, Reb.”
Even I don’t know if it’s a reassurance, or a plea.
Then, standing, I pull her into my arms. I don’t care how much I hurt. I can’t let her go. I lock eyes with James and Riker.
